


Warm and Tender As We Can Be

by LovelyPoet



Category: Penelope (2006)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fade to Black, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Canon, clear communication, telling the parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyPoet/pseuds/LovelyPoet
Summary: Penelope and Johnny, after.
Relationships: Johnny Martin/Penelope Wilhern
Comments: 18
Kudos: 106
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Warm and Tender As We Can Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seren_ccd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seren_ccd/gifts).



> You asked to see them in love and happy... and this is what happened.

**One**

Penelope hadn’t known what to expect when she showed up at Johnny’s door on Halloween. Of course, she’d had hopes and more than a few vivid daydreams of getting caught up in the sweeping crescendo of a happily-ever-after embrace. And she’d tried to prepare herself for the worst as well, for no-one to answer or for Johnny to slam the door in her face. The possibility that had worried her the most was that he might let her in and listen and tell her to go away all the same. 

So when he spins her into his arms, she gives herself over to the kiss and thinks, _this is it._ And for a few minutes, it is everything. The world narrows down. The noise from the party outside fades away, and Penelope feels like she is entirely defined by the points where they are touching. His mouth open against hers, soft and searching and desperate by turns. One hand curls around the back of her neck, and then he’s skimming a wide warm palm down her side before settling it gentle and low on her back.

She presses herself against him, and the sound he makes sparks something hot and needy that nearly overwhelms her. She wants so much, and more than anything else she wants to stay in this moment where there is nothing but the two of them. 

“Penelope,” Johnny murmurs, his mouth against her neck now. It’s easy enough for her to run her fingers through his hair, tipping her head back and shuddering at the heat of his mouth and scrape of his teeth against the tender skin of her throat. When he moves backward, she goes with him. One step and then another until he is sinking down into a chair and pulling her into his lap with a single smooth movement. Like this, with her knees pressing down into the leather upholstery where they bracket his thighs, she has to dip her head down to drag him into another kiss. The way he trembles under her when she does, his grip flexing on her hips, makes her feel powerful and fragile. 

It goes on like that, on the razor’s edge of tipping into something more until they finally break apart, both of them breathless and flushed. Her heart is pounding, and from where her hand rests on Johnny’s chest she can tell his is too. 

“Hi,” Penelope says. She feels suddenly and shockingly uncertain even with his hands still shaping the curve of her hips. She realizes that for all the time she’s spent thinking about what it would be like to see Johnny again—how she would explain and all the ways he could react, what it would feel like to do what they just did—she hasn’t actually bothered to think about anything that might come after.

“Hi,” Johnny says. He licks his lips, and Penelope wants so much to kiss him more, lose herself in it again. He speaks before she can. “What are you doing here? Not that— I mean. Sorry, I just—”

“What?” Penelope asks. 

“You’re really here,” he says. His eyes are just as startling blue as she remembered. So intensely focused on her that she starts to feel the old familiar urge to flinch away from being seen. He must see it because his gaze softens into a smile and his hands move up to cup her face. 

“You’re staring,” she says, barely more than a whisper. 

“I know,” he says. His thumb grazes against the edge of her mouth. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

“No,” she swallows. “I like the way you look at me. No one else has ever looked at me the way you do.” 

“How do I look at you?” Johnny asks. 

She thinks about that day in the annex with his eyes fixed on her. How he’d reached out, so slow and careful in a way it had taken her months of replaying to recognize as tenderness not fear. And she thinks about all the visits before that when his attention made her feel like the mirror was no shield at all. She suddenly remembers the night she bumped into him at the Cloverdilly when he said she looked good, happy, and how close it was to being true, even if she didn’t know it yet. And how right now, he’s looking at her in exactly the same way, like nothing at all about her has changed.

“Like you see me,” she says.

“I do,” he says, his breath ghosting against her skin. “I think I always did.”

“I know,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His eyes shutter and suddenly he’s looking somewhere past her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I should have told you right away who I was and what was going on.”

“But?” Penelope presses, and immediately regrets it when Johnny doesn’t answer right away. Of all the things she wanted to talk about tonight, the lies and misunderstandings are the least of them. But if they are going to do this, she needs some space between them. 

She’s nowhere near as graceful getting out of his lap as he was in getting her there. He doesn’t try to stop her, and soon enough she’s standing again, tugging her dress straight and twisting nervous fingers in the flowing fabric of the long skirt. She watches as Johnny takes a deep breath and drags his fingers through his hair. 

“I knew as soon as I did, it would be all over,” he says finally. “And I— I didn’t want it to be over. You weren’t anything I was expecting, and I liked you. So much. Right from the start”

“And you liked the money?” Penelope says, almost an echo of their very first conversation.

“It was stupid, I know,” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, I liked the money. At first. But by the end, I think I’d even started to fool myself into thinking that I could actually be what you needed.” 

“I didn’t even know what I needed,” Penelope says. “I thought I did, but—

“Do you know what you need now?” Johnny’s leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. 

“No,” she tells him. “But I think I know what I want.”

“Yeah?” he says, and she thinks she recognizes the cautious hope in his tone, and so she tells him. 

The party outside is dying down when she leaves finally. He kisses her again at the door, and again. For a minute she thinks about not leaving at all, but Annie is still there, talking a mile a minute to the front half of a purple and pink zebra, and she grins broad and knowing when she sees Penelope. 

“So,” she says, hooking her arm around Penelope’s once they are out on the street. “I’m guessing that went well.”

“He’s going out of town for a while for a job,” Penelope says with a shrug and a small smile. “But he’s going to call, and we’re going to go on a date when he gets back to town next month.”

“A date,” Annie scoffs, stopping dead in her tracks. “A date? Isn’t this the same guy you desperately proposed to last year?”

“Yes,” Penelope says, walking ahead. “But that was different. I wasn’t really proposing to him.”

“Oh,” Annie says. “Right. Because he was Max the blueblood back then. And now he’s just Johnny.”

“Right,” Penelope says.

“And now that everything is cleared up, just Johnny is somebody you want to date?” Annie asks. 

“Yes,” Penelope says. 

“Well, ok then.” Annie says. “Come on, i’m starving. And I want details, because you were in there way longer than it takes to ask a boy out on a date, and I know the face of a girl whose been kissed stupid.”

**Two.**

Penelope found the gold and black art deco desk phone at an antique store down the block from her apartment shortly after she moved in. It’s heavy and the speaker in the receiver crackles horribly sometimes and its rotary dial sticks and is just completely impractical, but she loves it all the same. 

The truth is, there aren’t that many people she talks to on the phone. Her mother is still voiceless, and her father prefers face-to-face conversations over weekend brunches with free-flowing mimosas. Wanda writes formal letters and encloses embossed invitations to society galas now that she’s out of matchmaking and into event planning, and Annie hates the phone and would rather just shoot the shit over a pint. So to this point, it’s been little more than a decorative piece for her living room coffee table. 

But Johnny keeps his promise. He calls her from hotels up and down the eastern seaboard. Not every night because, he insists, _I don’t want you to get sick me before we even get to our date,_ but often enough that Penelope begins to love and look forward to the sharp clanging ring.

The calls stretch on, so long that after the first two or three, Penelope finds herself puttering around the apartment while they talk, carrying the phone with her and carefully maneuvering to keep the long cord from tangling around her feet or any of the furniture. 

“This feels so familiar,” Johnny says, interrupting himself several minutes deep into a story about the cat who interrupted the band’s set the night before. 

“What do you mean?” Penelope asks, folding a sweater and setting it neatly into the laundry basket beside her. 

“This,” Johnny says, “Having just your voice, no idea what you’re doing over there.”

“Oh,” Penelope says. She’d never really thought much about what it must have felt like from the other side of the mirror, only believing that sparing her potential matches the sight of her was necessary. “I had a bit of an advantage, I guess.”

“Mmm, I don’t know if I’d say that,” Johnny says. “But you should definitely tell me what you’re doing.” 

“Nothing,” Penelope says. “Folding laundry.”

“Well, that’s not nothing,” Johnny says.

“It’s definitely not as interesting as trying to catch a feral cat in the middle of a power ballad,” Penelope says. 

“It’s not,” agrees Johnny. “But not many things are. I bet you’re the kind of person who folds everything the second the dryer finishes and puts it all away in exactly the right place, aren’t you?

“Not always,” Penelope says, feeling herself blush for no reason she can figure out. “Last week I left a basket of towels unfolded for almost three hours because I’d been running late to lunch with my dad.”

“Three hours! Scandalous,” Johnny exclaims, then pauses and asks, “Is it more of a scandal for a blueblood to not put their laundry away or to be doing their own laundry to begin with?”

“Oh definitely doing their own laundry,” Penelope says with a smirk. “My mother told me that back in ‘95, Millie Hempstead’s engagement was called off after she and her mother were spotted in an all night fluff and fold. The family never truly recovered.”

“Now see, this is what I’m talking about,” Johnny says, and Penelope can hear him moving, the rustle of fabric and creak bedsprings. “If I could see you, I might be able to figure out whether that was a joke or not.” 

“How long now?” Penelope asks. She knows the answer, but it’s a pattern they’ve fallen into now, and it’s a comfort. 

“Seventeen days,” Johnny says. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too,” she says. She wants to say so much more.

When the count stands at eight days, Penelope finds herself at a museum gala, sipping champagne and wishing she’d worn more comfortable shoes. The legend of Millie Hempstead’s exile and her own cancelled wedding notwithstanding, the Wilherns were reabsorbed into society with startling speed. And now that the world knows she exists, Penelope has no convenient excuse to avoid the tedium of hobnobbing and providing fodder to keep the gossips on their toes.

“Your mother appears to be plotting something,” Penelope’s father says, handing her a fresh champagne glass and a plate nearly overflowing with an assortment of canapes.

“Of course she is,” Penelope says, rolling her eyes. “Mom will be plotting from the grave. Did you mug a waiter for these? I thought there was a strict rules about getting more than a single nibble at a time.”

“I only scared him a little,” her father says, plucking a toothpick of watermelon and brie from the plate. “God, I would kill for a burger.” 

“We can probably sneak out as soon as the silent auction wraps up,” Penelope says. “There’s a diner over on 37th that Johnny says isn’t much to look at but makes a great patty melt and the best fresh chips in the city.” 

“Johnny says so, does he?” Her father raises an eyebrow. 

“Did I say Johnny?” Penelope says, taking a long draw from her drink. “Gosh, how about that?” 

“Just promise me, dear,” he says, “that I’ll be there when you tell your mother.” 

Penelope laughs with an utterly undignified snort, the kind of thing that once upon a time would have made both her and her mother blanch in horror and says, “My word as a Wilhern.”

“No good,” he says, with a chuckle. “We know how much that is worth.”

When Johnny calls the next time, she tells him about the promise and he says, “I’d like to be there too.”

**Three.**

They meet just before sunset outside the gates of the winter carnival and Johnny smiles at her broad and brilliant. 

“So, before we get too far into this,” Johnny says when she’s close enough to hear him over the sound of the crowd and the loud cheerful music, “I feel like I should warn you that I am a sucker for a good ice sculpture. I mean, I’ll try to keep my attention on you, but if there’s anything even close to last year’s dragon beyond these gates, all bets are off.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Penelope says, following him into the winding line. 

“You think I’m joking with you,” Johnny say, reaching out to adjust her scarf, a new one in a solid deep blue that’s knotted snuggly under her chin. “But I am one hundred percent serious.”

“My parents had an ice sculpture at their wedding reception,” Penelope says, slipping her gloved hand into his. “But it was a trellis climbing roses, not a dragon.”

“A dragon definitely would have been better. I’m guessing the society pages would never have approved. Why didn’t they just have real roses?” Johnny asks. 

“It was July. Anyone could have had fresh roses,” Penelope says. “It was a much more impressive display to keep an ice sculpture in perfect condition at an outdoor reception. So that’s what they did.” 

“Of course,” Johnny says, with a laugh. “Your mother’s idea?”

“Her mother’s idea, actually,” Penelope says. “I never met Grandmother Ernestine, but my father tells me that if I had, I’d understand my mother a lot better.”

“My parents got married on a weekend trip to Atlantic City, which now that I think about it probably explains a thing or two about me,” Johnny says with a wry smile and self conscious dip of his head. “Their reception was at an $6.95 all you can eat buffet.”

“Sounds like it was probably more fun than heatstroke for them and four-hundred of their closest vague acquaintances,” Penelope says, then she pauses and shakes her head and starts to laugh. “Or almost marrying Edward Vanderman because you got bogged down in the literal wording of an ancestral curse. God, give me a 24 hour chapel and some suspect shrimp over a lifetime chained to that completely dingus any day.”

“Complete _dingus_?” Johnny says incredulously. “Not that I disagree, but there are a lot of other words that spring to mind first if I’m forced to think about Edward.” 

“Annie,” Penelope says like it’s an explanation all on it’s own, and Johnny nods. “Is this is a weird conversation to be having? It feels weird.”

“It’s… yeah,” Johnny says. “We could talk about the weather instead? Cold enough for you?”

“I heard on the radio that it’s supposed to go down to the teens and there might be more snow overnight and tomorrow,” Penelope responds.

“Mmm, might need an extra blanket to keep you warm tonight.”

Finally at the front of the entry line, Johnny hands a crisp $20 bill to a portly man who is insulated from the cold by a full white beard and a plaid hat with fur-lined ear flaps and who smiles and winks and tells them to enjoy the evening.

Without needing to discuss it, they make their way toward the concessions, drawn in by the rich smells. Penelope watches enthralled as teams of confectioners work in the open under the bright lights — pouring, pulling, and twisting elaborate and delicate candies. 

“A sample for the lady,” one of the vendors says as they walk by, holding out a tray of colorful segments of ribbon candy. Penelope removes her glove to pick up a golden curl of sugar. She can’t help from moaning a little at the rich butter caramel taste, and she is instantly conscious of Johnny’s eyes on her.

“Come on,” Johnny says, looking away and swallowing, “there’s a lot to see.” 

The tour the ice palace and watch children skate, and when Penelope quietly admits that she can’t skate at all, Johnny shrugs and says he can’t either. When the cold gets to be too much, they duck into warming tents for steaming cups of cocoa and mulled wine and fresh hot donuts coated in cinnamon and sugar. 

Johnny does lose the thread of their conversation when he spots an ice sculpture of a pegasus, its wings spread in a sweeping arc, and Penelope has to admit that she’s never seen anything quite like it. And when the fireworks show begins, they are sitting snug under a thick blanket at the top of the ferris wheel, watching as the stark landscape of snow and ice below them is painted by the light of the explosions.

Johnny walks with her to her building and kisses her goodnight and starts to pull away, but Penelope holds tight to the lapel of his coat. Again, she asks for what she wants, and he says yes. 

Her apartment is warm, thermostat right where she left it for the plants, and in her bedroom the low light from her lamp throws shadow theater versions of them against the wall. 

“To be clear, I was trying to be a gentleman,” Johnny groans against her throat as she tugs at his shirt. 

“You succeeded,” Penelope says getting the last of his shirt buttons free and trying to shove the fabric off his shoulders at the same time as he starts working the long zipper on the back of her dress. “Admirably.”

He peels her dress slowly down her body kissing and caressing bare skin as it is revealed, the line of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts at the lacy edge of her bra, until she feels crazy with it. 

“Please,” she says. 

They spill onto her bed and scramble out of the last of their clothes, and as the snow starts to swirl outside, their bodies fit together in all the ways she knew they would.

**Four.**

On New Year’s Eve, Penelope is at the kitchen table when the doorbell rings twice in quick succession, and when she opens the door, Johnny is there with his scarf looped loose around his neck and his jacket open. He’s holding a small clay pot of Santpaulia Ionantha, their deep purple blossoms and wide fuzzy leaves. 

“I don’t know anything about them,” he says with a shrug once he is inside. “I just saw them. In the window of the nursery up on West Lane this morning, and they reminded me of you. The’re kind of the color of that coat of yours.” 

“They’re African Violets,” Penelope tells him, taking the pot and quickly checking the moisture level of the soil and root exposure before setting it down next to a blooming Mammillaria Guelzowiana on the credenza. “But They aren’t really violets at all, a completely different order. I’ll have to re-pot them and get them into one of the terrariums. They’re very picky about temperature.”

“Ok,” Johnny says, starting to unwind his scarf. 

“I don’t have to do it right now,” Penelope says. “You said you love this band.” 

“I know, I do” Johnny says. “But I also know it will drive you crazy if you don’t do what you have to to take care of them, and it’ll take you all of what, half an hour? We’ve got plenty of time before they go on.” 

As the clock ticks down to midnight and the crowd around them on the dancefloor cheers and sings and exchange joyful kisses and best wishes, she’s sweating, red faced and out of breath and her hair sticking to the side of her face and the back of her neck. Her ears are ringing, and she can’t stop smiling. She starts the year with dirt under her fingernails and Johnny by her side.

March comes with in with a whimper of dreary gray rain, and Penelope keeps her promise to her father and Johnny. She makes a reservation for four at one of her mother’s favorite restaurants, some place she won’t be willing to make a scene. She and Johnny are holding hand when her parents arrive, and she says, “Mom, Dad, you remember Johnny Martin. We’re in love.”

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Wilhern,” Johnny says, and Penelope can tell how much he’s struggling to school his expression in the face of Jessica’s gape-mouthed stare darting back and forth between them. “I hope we’ll have a chance to get to know each other much better, now that Penelope and I are together. You’re daughter is a very special woman.”

“Yes,” her father says, grinning at them both. “Yes, she certainly is. All the happiness to you both, and please, call me Franklin. Jessica, darling, have a seat you’re blocking the waiter’s path.” 

**Five.**

“We should get out of the city,” Johnny says on a hot summer night. “Go to the mountains.” 

The air in the apartment is still and heavy, and the occasional flash of distant heat lightning interrupts the dark. They’ve been in bed for hours, talking and trading lazy aimless kisses and touches as they drift toward sleep. Now, Johnny is on his side, head pillowed on his bent arm while Penelope stretches out on her stomach beside him. The sheets are bunched at the foot of the bed, and the slow drag of Johnny’s fingers down and up the bare skin of her back has Penelope shivering in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature. 

“I’ve never been to the mountains,” Penelope says. Johnny shifts to press his smiling mouth against the curve of her shoulder. 

“You’ll love it,” he says. 

They take an early train out of the city three days later.

Penelope spends the first hour watching out the window as brick and pavement and skyscraper roll away behind them. The buildings get smaller and farther apart until there are long uninterrupted stretches of open countryside. Farms with dark-soiled fields and shady groves of apple trees. Low hills where there is nothing but tall grass gone pale and dry in the summer heat give way to steeper climbs grown thick with towering trees. The rhythm of the wheels on the track is steady and soothing, and beside her Johnny is reading _The Dreamer_ for the second time.

She shifts away from the window to lean against his side. The automatic way his arm settles around her is familiar and comfortable, and he angles the book toward her without her having to ask. 

“Oh, this is my favorite part,” she says.

“Mine too,” he says.


End file.
